


I hate that I missed you, but I missed you all the same

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Pining, Seduction, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 11:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom isn't quite as over Harry as he thought he was.





	I hate that I missed you, but I missed you all the same

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write this genre or this style, so I don't really know what I'm doing, and criticism is welcome.

They hadn’t seen each other in a while, after the breakup Harry had poignantly turned down all his invitations, and Tom was unwilling to stick his pride out on the line, so he hadn’t bothered to pursue him any further. 

That was until tonight. 

Maybe it was because Harry looked so good, or perhaps it was that he was on his own, something that rarely seemed to happen, even when they were together. He shouldn’t be left alone. People would take advantage of his naïve outlook on the world, that optimism that was so irritating, but also disgustingly sweet. How, after all this time and all those events, Harry could just… smile. 

How he could act all innocent, still so buoyant and carefree and untainted by everything that the world had thrown at him. 

Well, relatively untainted. You don’t come out of that environment without a few perversions. Tom should know, not only did he have his own pretty collection of depravities, but so did Harry. Of course, in public, he’d never disclosed them, but in private it was a very different matter, Tom should know, he was on the receiving end of every filthy fantasy for three years.

Then it had ended. 

Badly. 

But none of that mattered, not right now, not when Tom wanted to peel back that veil of pretend immaculation Harry always wore. He’d like to bring out those depravities that Harry buried under his skin just one more time; he wanted to feel those shaky hands as they ran over his body, always too eager. He’d always liked that. On anyone else, that eagerness would have been too much, like wearing an oversized jacket it would have looked ridiculous, but on Harry… on Harry it was pretty. 

It suited him to be so enthusiastic about everything. 

Except seeing Tom anymore. 

Harry had been doing his best to avoid him. He’d never admit to it of course, but on the few occasions they happened to be in the same building, they’d never meet. Once, Tom had even seen Harry on the landing as he came up the stairs, Harry had gone down the elevator just to avoid him, and he _knew_ it was to avoid him because Harry _never_ took the elevator.

So Harry had made it _very_ clear that Tom was someone he was no longer interested in.

Which was a shame. 

A real shame because he was looking absolutely delectable standing there by the wall. 

Tom couldn’t help but smile when Harry leant back because Malfoy would probably have a heart attack if he saw how Harry was leaning against the wallpaper, but, then again, that was probably the point. After all, there was no way Harry was here exclusively by choice. He just he wasn’t the type to _enjoy_ this sort of party, too many purebloods with their stuffy conversations and outdated attitudes, he’d say. The wrong _sort_ of people, the ones with ideas that were definitely on the bad side of the tracks; they were too much like Tom, he’d say; too careful with their thoughts and their actions, too _artificial_, except when they thought no one was listening.

Really, that was why they’d finished with each other. 

Politics was an infinite source of disagreement, and the further Tom climbed that political ladder the less Harry had been willing to engage. He wasn’t keen on the parties or the discussions or the debates about obscure pieces of legislation which he didn’t have decent reasoning for but objected to anyway. 

And just like that.

A three-year-long relationship had finished.

Not dramatically. There were no fights or terrible rows, no screaming in the street at midnight. They just drifted away until both of them spent more time away from their apartment than in it. Both always making bad excuses to stay out late, always work excuses, always written quickly and sent back via owl, only to remain unopened.

There was probably a stack of them at the apartment. 

They still owned it, technically. 

Though Tom doubted Harry used it, and he certainly didn’t. What was the point in looking at all the things they’d used to have before? Back when they used to like each other. 

It wasn’t that long ago, and one day they’d have to face up to it and just sell the place and everything in it. 

But, sitting here on his own, Tom didn’t care, not one bit. It had been better since Harry had left. There were fewer debates, fewer disagreements, sure, it was lonely without Harry to talk to in the mornings over a cup of coffee, or listen to him complain in the evenings whilst they sat on the sofa together, Harry’s head always resting on his shoulder, and his hands _always_ slid between Tom’s own. And sure, maybe he’d always liked to hear Harry’s opinions, however bad they were, on everything he did.

It had been reassuring. 

Tom took a sip of his drink and let his eyes drift over Harry again. 

Like he didn’t already know everything about him. If he’d known he was going to be here tonight he would have taken a bet what Harry was going to wear, and he would’ve won. He usually won their games, but every so often Harry had managed it.

He wouldn’t forget those days. 

Or the nights that followed them.

Tom swallowed and tried to ignore that lump in his throat. He was happier now. So was Harry probably, there was definitely rumours of him and that Weasley girl he’d been with at Hogwarts. They looked good together, even if Harry didn’t smile when she rested her chin on his shoulder and squeezed his hand. 

Not that Tom had been watching. 

He’d just noticed whenever he saw them together. 

It was a habit, trying to see if Harry was happy. 

But she wasn’t here tonight though, no doubt she’d rejected it on the grounds of morality when, really, this was an entirely moral affair, it was a Ministry dinner after all. Or, at least, Ministry sanctioned, that was probably why Harry was here.

Everyone loves child stars that grow up and continue to be stars. 

A few minutes past of him sitting staring at the throngs of people, hoping none of them would actually talk to him because then he’d have to smile and stop the sourness that now coated his tongue from spilling out onto them. 

Most people were boring. 

Most people weren’t Harry Potter.

Tom’s fingers were starting to tap on the arm of the chair. He didn’t want to be here anymore, and not just in this chair; he didn’t want to be at this party, or in this house. The house of the man he was having semi-regular sex with, the man who would definitely like it if he became a little more than just a friend with certain benefits.

Because, whilst Tom had never had a problem with morality, he had always had a problem with just taking what he wanted, even if it, or rather they, belonged to someone else. 

And sometimes it was just better to avoid temptation.

He sighed and was about to get up and go when he felt someone watching him. The pressure, almost physical on his neck was enough to know, he was used to people looking, and usually, he wouldn’t care, but tonight he needed distractions.

He looked back. 

Tom wished he hadn’t for his eyes met Harry’s.

Of course, he _could_ have been wrong. It might not have been Harry. Thanks to Malfoy and his obsessions with splendour at the expense of practicality, this party, like every other function he was vaguely made responsible for, was a masquerade party; always over the top, always extravagant to the nth degree, and every year it leaned further into ostentatious. 

He was wearing a mask, sure, it only covered half his face, but it was enough to at least pretend that maybe Harry didn’t recognise him. But if he recognised Harry, then Harry probably recognised him too. 

But they could still pretend they were strangers who’d met and made a mistake.

He’d love to make a mistake with Harry. 

Just one more time. 

Neither of them moved. Harry still standing against the wall, his hands working themselves together and his teeth pressing on the edge of his lip, almost hard enough to make it bleed. And Tom, standing by the chair, knowing he’d swallowed too many times in the last minute, and that he could hear his pulse like it were a timer held to his ear. 

They only watched each other. 

But Tom could feel the simmering in his chest and that tightness in his throat, perhaps, it was that sentimentality he’d always tried to avoid soaking up through his skin, or, perhaps, it was just the glass of wine he’d had at dinner, that had got him thinking of stupid things. 

Stupid things like watching his ex lean against the wall, all alone, and thinking about kissing him again. 

Thinking about an awful lot more than that if he was honest. 

He should leave.

But he couldn’t, not when Harry was looking like _that_. He’d just go over and talk, and if something else happened, well, it wouldn’t be entirely his fault, after all, it did take two to tango.

Or, you know, make out in that empty room that definitely wasn’t just down the corridor. 

Tom swallowed again and started to walk towards him.


End file.
